


Repercussions

by Uniasus



Series: Bleached [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blind crowley, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Magicless Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: For six months, Aziraphale stayed away in the hopes that Crowley's magic would return. It hadn't, and perhaps even worse he'd left Crowley to deal with the adjustments alone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Bleached [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748113
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley woke and stuck out his tongue. The space beside him on the bed was empty, as expected. The lingering scent of Aziraphale was stronger than it had been in months, which he chalked up as his overactive imagination.

Groaning, Crowley pushed himself awake. His phone alarm was making noise. He brought the device to his nose and squinted at the screen. -2:10 it said in bold, red letters. That might be a new record, ignoring his alarm for so little time. It meant that he could indulge in the morning.

He stumbled his way to the shower and turned the water on hot. He liked the burn on his skin, stepping out clean to a room filled with steam. He wasn’t so keen on the idea of showers, that is, his new need to wash. It hadn’t been something he thought about before, but now he couldn’t snap himself, or his clothes, clean.

Towel drying his hair, Crowley walked back to the bedroom. He was glad before this all happened he’d moved in with the angel. It had made moving easier – Aziraphale enlarging the space above the bookshop while Crowley moved the furniture he wanted to bring over. It had been the angel who insisted on a closet – all his clothes were real whereas Crowley tended to miracle his up. Now, the demon had his own sizable collection of actual clothes.

He would never admit it sober, but he now understood Aziraphale’s preference for the real stuff. It seemed softer, somehow. And the real items he’d bought had fared better in the washing machine. Nothing Crowley had cursed up lasted very long with rough treatment.

It was a workday, so he wanted something comfortable that he didn’t mind getting dirty. He pulled out a pair of black wash jeans and a faded red Tee. Then, he turned to the other side of the closet, crossing his arms as he stared at the blurry pastels.

He’d never asked Aziraphale if the angel was okay with Crowley wearing his clothes. He assumed yes, but since he was particular about their care Crowley rarely did and never when he was doing something strenuous. But today, all he needed was something to wear during the bus ride to the greenhouse and he was missing Aziraphale fiercely.

Giving in, Crowley went through the selection of sweaters. He’d never seen Aziraphale wear them, just collect them, so none had a strong scent of the angel. Still, he tasted the air around each of them and picked one with a moderate strength smell. Something that would comfort him, but also not a potential favorite to require extra care.

Dressed, he moved to the bathroom to finish up other hygiene tasks he needed to follow now. Teeth brushing and arranging his hair. He switched from the near-blind snake vision he had to the auras Anathema had taught him to see. It didn’t sharpen his vision, but auras, unlike what he saw with his eyes, were brightly colored. Crowley had taken to drawing enochain sigils on items, associating each uniquely colored sigil with different products. Sure, he could bring the bottles close to his face and read the labels, but this worked better.

Teeth brushed, hair artfully styled, he looked at his phone. The large numbers let him know it was time to leave, and leave now because the bus was due in 10 minutes.

Not that the bus would be there in 10. In Crowley’s experience, buses often came within 20 minutes of their expected time, be it 10 minutes early or 10 minutes late. Or later, if the weather was awful. He couldn’t afford to miss it; he’d be late and Frank would get worried and it was best to avoid that.

Pocketing his phone, he reached for his cane, kept at the top of the stairs. Then, he skipped down into the bookshop, heading straight for the front door.

“Crowley?”

He froze at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice.

Slowly, he turned. Vaguely, he saw someone that could be the angel emerging from between two bookshelves. He took a nose full of air, remembering to not flick his tongue in case it would weird the stranger out, and switched his eyesight.

They smelled like Aziraphale and they certainly light up with the searing bright light of Heaven. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley winced.

“Aziraphale?” the words came out soft. Small. Dare he say it, young. “You’re really here?”

“Oh, dearest.”

Crowley found himself enveloped in a warm, soft hug. The arms around him were solid, the body before him familiar. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and cried in the angel’s neck. “You’re home. You came home.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Did you dream I didn’t?”

“What?”

Crowley pushed away, whipping his sunglasses off to look at Aziraphale. It didn’t matter much; his eyesight was too bad to pick up the small emotional tells that might be on his face.

Gently, Aziraphale thumbed away Crowley’s tears. “I came back three days ago.”

“You- oh.”

“You forgot.”

“Shit. How, how could I-? I just, I woke up, and the bed was empty, and-”

“And you thought it was just another day without me. Oh, love. I’m sorry.” Crowley could hear the tears in Aziraphale’s voice. “I should have stayed in bed with you. Only I so missed the shop, and you’d been sleeping for two days. I thought you’d sleep a little longer.”

“So it’s... Wednesday. Wednesday morning.”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Crowley?”

“I, uh, job, angel. I have a job now, remember? Wednesday mornings are the farmers market. I’m supposed to be there. Why didn’t Frank call?” Crowley turned, dislodging Aziraphale to dig out his phone. He pressed the button to activate the voice assistant. “Missed messages.”

“Two missed messages.” Crowley started to pace, but Aziraphale’s hand on his forearm stopped him. Instead, the demon leaned against Aziraphale’s side as he listened. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten the angel had returned.

Frank’s messages were the same vein – you didn’t show up for work and now I’m worried.

“I’ll call him back,” Crowley said, “Say I was sick, sorry for worrying him, that I can’t help tod-” He cut off as Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hands on the phone.

“Call him,” the angel said. “Tell him you were sick, but that you’re feeling better and will be there in an hour.”

“Don’t wanna go, angel. I want to spend the day with you. You just got back.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley gently. “We have eternity, remember? I don’t want you to put your current life on hold, just because of me.”

“I only have it cuz you left. I don’t need it now that you’re here.”

“We’ll see,” Aziraphale said and Crowley couldn't understand that tone. How he wished, for the thousandth time, he had his old vision back.

“Now, are you wearing my sweater?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It looks fetching on you.”

“I’ll go change.”

“No need.”

“No, I should.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “I dressed for a day at the greenhouse, not a day at the market. I’ll be back real quick.” He placed a peck on Aziraphale's cheek and jogged up the stairs.

* * *

When Crowley came back down, Aziraphale noticed he was dressed similarly. Same jeans, same boots but he’d changed into a shirt he’d never seen it before - black with a tan design that decades with Crowley let him know was Queen album art. Over it he wore a charcoal grey shirt, buttons undone and sleeves pushed back to the elbow.

It gave the demon an almost lazy, relaxed air and it struck Aziraphale how long it’d been since he’d seen Crowley like that outside of bed. A few years certainly, something Aziraphale pegged as Crowley’s worry over his disappearing magic.

“Something wrong with what I’m wearing?” Crowley looked down at his shirt.

“No,” Aziraphale answered. “It’s just new. I’m used to seeing you in a jacket. And you’ve migrated to grey.”

“Yeah, well, humans expect you to wear a variety of things.”

“I see.”

“Come on, we’re late. We’ll have to take a cab.” Crowley settled his sunglasses on his nose and opened the door, bowing to let Aziraphale pass.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he descended the three steps.

“Swiss Cottage.”

Aziraphale turned, expecting to see Crowley already halfway down the stairs, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was still at the top, manually locking bookshop with a set of keys matching a brand new lock. As he watched, Crowley flicked out the slim cane he’d been carrying and skipped down the stairs.

He didn’t use it as a Victorian cane, upright and as a piece of fashion. He held it at an angle, so the ball on the end hovered an inch off the ground and three feet in front of Crowley.

Aziraphale stared.

“Cab stand’s this way.” Crowley turned left, away from Aziraphale, and instantly the angel reached out to grab his elbow.

“Angel?”

“We need not go to the stand, dearest.” He snapped, and a car pulled up to the curb. “Or," Aziraphale continued, "we could take the Bentley.”

Crowley grimaced. “Can’t drive it.”

“I can.”

“You don’t know where we’re going, Aziraphale.” He kissed the angel’s cheek. “You can... you can drive next time.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale opened the car door and Crowley slid in, already giving a destination. Aziraphale took his seat, closing the door behind him. The cab took off. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and kissed the back of it.

He blushed. “Wut’s that for?”

“I want to. I’ve missed you.”

“I’m missed you, too.” Crowley scooted closer, leaning his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

They sat in silence, absorbing one another’s company as they left Soho. Aziraphale glanced at their reflection in the rearview mirror, tried to imagine what their driver saw. He’d never cared much about how random humans perceived him. Unless there was a direct interaction – someone entering the bookshop, a waiter bringing food – most humans glazed over angels and demons alike. They were _other_ and humans were good at ignoring people that were _other._

Magicless, did humans see Crowley as one of their own? And what did they think of him? At first glance, Crowley gave the appearance of a blind man. He didn’t know why – he maneuvered around the bookshop yesterday with no problem. Something must be behind it.

The same thing behind all of Crowley’s actions today – psychically changing, physically locking the shop, believing he had to go to the cab stand. They were all the actions of a _human._

Aziraphale knew Crowley had no magic. It’s why he left, hoping the distance between them might bring it back. He never considered all the _adjustments_ that came with that. He’d left Crowley, leaving only a note on the pillow, and his love had to relearn how to navigate the world alone.

Guilt stabbed through him. He wasn’t a good lover, was he? He’d failed to notice Crowley’s condition for ten years. Abandoned him when he needed help the most. He hadn’t even been there when Crowley woke, hadn’t gone to say hello when he heard the footsteps upstairs.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand, their linked fingers still resting on Aziraphale’s thigh. “Stop thinking.”

“I shan’t. But maybe you can help. I feel like we should visit Anathema and I’d like to bring a gift. What’d you recommend?”

“She’s trying to get Jasmine Cottage in order, so something for the garden would be nice. She's decided to stop letting the garden grow wild. We've been fixing it to her liking. We can look for something in the market.”

“And what do you do? At the market.”

Crowley shrugged his far shoulder. “Sell flowers. Nothing special.”

“I doubt that. We’re sitting here. Tell me about Frank and your job.”

* * *

Aziraphale had known the basics – Crowley had told him months ago he found a job to pay for petrol as he couldn’t curse up a full gas tank or a pocket full of bills. He never pushed for the details, believing he was respecting Crowley’s desire not to share them. Now, he wished he had. Watching Crowley speak, watching him unable to look Aziraphale in the eye while he explained that he took the job out of some measure of spite and boredom, made Aziraphale realize Crowley never shared the details because he didn’t want the angel to worry _too_ much.

It’d worked. On their phone calls, Crowley had given the basics and Aziraphale took him at his surface-level tone. It meant Crowley had been left alone, physically and emotionally, when he’d needed it most. Aside from right after the Fall, of course.

He felt grateful to both Anathema and Frank, looking after Crowley while Aziraphale hadn’t. Because, as Aziraphale read in Crowley’s manners and pauses and expressions, the demon had been _desperate_ in a way Aziraphale hadn’t picked up through a cell phone. Crowley would never admit it either, but as he talked and explained how he met Frank and what he did for the man, he sunk further and further into Aziraphale’s side. It reminded him rather starkly of the release of tension he’d seen in those floundering in deep water when they spotted rescue.

Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head as he rambled – now about the improvements he kept trying to encourage Frank to make to the greenhouse he grew flowers in. Ten years ago, Crowley would have snapped those improvements into place or had Frank win the money for it in the lottery. Now, all Crowley could do was speak and plan.

The demon continued to talk, Aziraphale listening with half an ear. He gazed out the window and paid attention to all the little things the humans did. They got on buses (that required fares), left clothing shops with bags (the required payment), tried unsuccessfully to get cabs, stood in line to be seated at a café, bought tickets for events, looked both ways before crossing a street. Life seemed infinitely more complex and tiring. He also wondered, what had Crowley stopped doing? He used to love going to the movies, to concerts. Had he in the past six months?

Probably not, Aziraphale figured, calculating costs. Clothes and cane and bus fares and taxi rides. How much did Crowley make? How often had he had to budget, to give up on things? There had been no tea in the shop when he arrived a few days ago. Had Crowley drunk it, and not been able to afford more? Not that he needed to eat, he said, so it wasn’t harmful not to have it. Just sad.

The taxi slowed. Up ahead, Aziraphale saw a collection of colorful tents, covered tables, and vans spilling with produce. Crowley pulled away, digging a hand into his back pocket and pulling out a wallet. Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s, forcing the demon to place his wallet on his thigh. With his other hand, the angel called into being the fare on the taximeter and passed it up to the driver.

Crowley sputtered but said nothing. Another hint of how hard things had been for Crowley to not protest saving the fair of a ride.

The demon protested even as Aziraphale slipped his arm into the crook of Crowley’s elbow.

“I can get around by myself, angel.”

“You’re letting the humans think you’re a blind man. Doesn’t it help the image if I’m guiding you?”

“No,” Crowley grumbled. “Most of the stall owners here already know me and know I can get around by myself. It helps everyone here has assigned spots – they're all in the same place every time.”

“Well, I’m not sure I want to let you go regardless. I’ve missed you so.”

Crowley blushed, tipping his head down.

As much as Aziraphale wanted to nudge humans out of their path, Crowley’s walking stick seemed to do the trick. He walked slow, saunter diminished, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if his gait was calculated to give humans time to get out of his way or if the demon had to pay more attention to everything around them. He supposed a little of both.

Aziraphale said nothing even as they got closer to a signpost, wanting to give Crowley his independence and curious about how the demon had dealt with such things. It was only when Crowley’s sweeping cane hit it did he step sideways.

“How bad is your vision?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley stepped left, closer to the angel’s side.

The demon shrugged. “Very nearsighted. Skinny things disappear, lamp posts and such. Distance is also off. But I can see the tents and the shape of people.”

“Hmm.”

Crowley knew the market, turning shortly after the sign onto a shorter row of vendors.

“Anthony!”

The call, happy and relieved, came from a tent three down to the left. The text was an almost nauseous green, held over a display of three folding tables placed in a U and a smaller patio set near the back of the tent. Aziraphale got a sense of potted plants and premade bouquets before a man rushed out from behind the tables to pull Crowley into a hug. And Crowley _let him._

Aziraphale held back a sniff. Just because it took him a few thousand years to gather up the courage (and knowledge) that Crowley would accept his touch didn’t mean others didn’t pick up on that quicker.

“I’m glad you’re okay," the man said. "It must have been some bug, to keep you in bed so long.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And who’s this?”

Aziraphale found himself the center of Frank’s attention. The man was older, late sixties, early seventies perhaps. He wore simple, but well cared for clothes, and when he reached out for a handshake Aziraphale noted the sure grip.

“This, is, ah,” Crowley coughed into his fist, “Azira.”

Frank’s eye widened as he grins, pulling Aziraphale into a hug. “Good to finally meet you! Anthony talks about you all the time.” After two pats on the angel’s back, leaving Aziraphale reeling from the unexpected contact, Frank turned back to Crowley.

“If you need a day off-”

“Nah. Angel here insisted that I show him my job.”

“Well, welcome. Come, take a seat. Mrs. Sanders asked about you earlier, Anthony. I told her you weren’t feeling well.”

“Oi! Now she’ll-”

“Come back with soup for you. It’s under the table.”

All three men looked under the small bistro table. There sat a small bag. Crowley groaned.

“A paramour, Crowley?” Aziraphale teased.

“Don’t start,” the demon snapped.

* * *

Frank talked Aziraphale’s ear off, sharing stories of both his own history and Crowley’s adventures with regular customers. The demon pinged the emotions of several women, a combination of his apparent blindness and his chiseled face with no obvious ties or partner nearby making them doubt his singlehood.

Crowley grumbled good-naturedly at Frank’s laziness, managing the cash box from his seat and nothing else. Crowley managed the tables, somehow managing to keep them organized between greeting and handling customers. He laughed and smiled at the people who shopped, greeting regulars and giving care instructions. He growled at each plant that left his hand, but none of them responded. Crowley couldn’t scare plants anymore. Or perhaps they no longer heard him.

Frank nudged Aziraphale’s elbow. “Why the long face?”

“Just regretting, again, that I was gone for so long, I suppose. Thank you for looking after him.”

“He looked after me just as much. I don’t do nearly as good business without him. He’s a plant whisperer and knows how to talk someone into buying something.”

Aziraphale smiled. “He could tempt anyone to anything.”

“Except you to stay?”

Aziraphale snapped his attention to the older man. Frank was watching Crowley instruct a man on how to care for his new mums.

“I-”

“Anthony talks. To me, to our customers, to the flowers. He tells us all different things, so I’m not sure what’s right. But it wasn’t right, you leaving him here to fend for himself.”

“I’m aware.” Aziraphale fiddled with his pinkie ring. “I didn’t think I’d be so long. Or that he’d need help as much as he did. He wasn’t... wasn’t blind when I left.”

Wasn’t blind, but he’d needed help in numerous other ways Aziraphale could have, _should have_ predicted.

“I’m not planning on leaving again,” he stated.

“Hmmm,” Frank answered. “Did you tell him?”

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale gave the man an affronted look.

"Just checking." Frank smiled. For all that he had been grilling the angel, the human just had Crowley's best interests at heart. He wasn't actually upset at Aziraphale. Or had decided that moment not to be.

The thought made Aziraphale smile back. He'd wanted Frank to like him ever since Crowley had talked about him on the ride over. Frank was important to Crowley and Aziraphale would have hated to have the old man not like him.

Patting his thighs, Frank stood up. "Anthony," he called out. "Go take a break. You look like you need a drink."

Crowley turned toward them, and to Aziraphale's surprise, the demon did indeed look in need of a drink. He hadn't been able to tell, staring at Crowley's back. There were traces of sweat-dampened hair near Crowley's temples and his nose looked pink.

"Do you have water in the van? I can-"

"Go take a break," Frank said again. "Show your partner around."

"There was a rather delightful looking lemonade stand near the entrance," Aziraphale offered.

Even from behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's go, angel. Frank, did you want anything? It's past lunch."

"No."

"Come, love." Aziraphale slipped his hand into Crowley's. With a soft smile, Crowley followed.

* * *

"'s not a very impressive market," Crowley said, "But Frank doesn't like the crowded ones."

"I think it's rather lovely."

"Course you do."

Swiss Cottage's market on average had 30 venders, 40 on a good week. Crowley knew most of them. He stuck out – the blind flower man – but he'd also made a point through the summer to try all the food stalls for Aziraphale's sake. He wouldn't be able to watch the angel enjoy them, not as he used to, but he could _imagine_ it. This pastry would make the angel crinkle his eyes in joy. That honey would make the corner of his lips twitch up _just so._

He wouldn't be able to confirm his guesses, but it didn't matter.

"Come, there's this-"

"Lemonade first."

"Lemonade? That there pastry shop has Prince Charles's seal of approval. Don't you want a pie?"

"Oh!" the angel's head snapped around to see, before turning back to Crowley. He wagged a finger in the demon's face. "Don't tempt me, you snake. You need a drink."

"I don't _need –_ "

"You're sweating."

"So?"

"That's a sign that you're hot. Maybe dehydrated."

"It's a perfectly normal response to three hours of August sun and work."

"Not for us."

Crowley clicked his jaws shut.

While he'd been bleached of magic slowly over ten years, the true loss of it six months ago had brought about sudden changes he couldn't always make sense of. In some ways, his corporation became more snakelike, or perhaps more attuned to his actual form and snake was a good a thing as any to call that. In others, his corporation's reactions were now outside of his control. 

"Look," Crowley tangled his fingers with Aziraphale's, pulling them to a stop in the middle of the walkway. "It's the corporation. It does stuff. It doesn't, doesn't burn energy like a body. But it reacts to things. Sweating is a reaction, but I don't get thirsty in the sun. I don't need to drink water."

He leaned forward, just a bit, to get closer to Aziraphale's face to discern his expression. It looked like a frown. It could also be a pout. A thin line of guilt. He can't read the angel anymore, his vision too fuzzy.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's fingers. "Talk to me."

Aziraphale sighed. "Please let me get you a lemonade anyway."

"I can get my own-"

"Crowley. Please." There was a tint of begging in that tone.

Blushing, Crowley turned his head away and nodded. He'd always give in to Aziraphale. "I'm buying your pies."

Aziraphale hummed, pulling Crowley forward.

He did not let Crowley pay for the pies.


	2. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realizes just how much he's relied on magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't necessarily expect to write more for this, though there are several scenes that *could* be written. Regardless, enjoy!

_Ring! Ring!_

His damn phone! Where was it? It had to be here, it was loud enough. Crowley rubbed his eyes, hoping it would help his vision, but it didn’t. Everything was blurry blobs of color and small things like phones got swallowed up. 

He thought he’d gotten better at putting his phone in the same spots so he could find it, but the bedside table was empty aside from the lamp and Aziraphale’s letter he still couldn’t bring himself to burn. 

_Ring! Ring!_

Crowley had to find his phone. It could be Aziraphale calling. Oh Satan, why didn’t he just keep the thing in his pocket? 

There was a thump and the sound of ringing changed. He whirled around toward the noise. It sounded like his phone had vibrated off something, and the best guess was the bookshelves lining the east wall of the bedroom. Crowley fell on his hands and knees, flicking out his tongue to sense the phone. 

His hands closed around it seconds after it stopped ringing. He brought the screen inches from his face to read the notification of a missed call. It wasn’t from Aziraphale. It was from Anathema. 

Crowley sat back on his heels, trying to figure out why she’d be calling him. Didn’t matter. He’d been effectively human for less than a week and had other things to worry about instead of why Book Girl was calling. 

Namely – relearn the bookshop. 

He thought he knew it, having moved in years ago. Indeed, he had no problem with the floor plan. He could see the doors, the furniture, the windows. What he couldn’t see from across the room were light switches. The edges of the rugs. He also didn’t remember quite so many raised pieces of wood in doorways either. 

He took his time learning, trying not to think about how silly he looked tracing the edges of rugs with his feet. Running fingers over walls. Crawling at floor level to better see the dips in the floor. Counting the steps between the bedroom to the top of the stairs, the kitchen to the top of the stairs, and other popular walking routes. He couldn’t quite tell how the stairs leading to downstairs were built. His fuzzy depth perception told him there were stairs, but the first two blended together and he had to learn the depth of each step. 

Crowley found himself counting all the time. He could still use his sight to navigate to large fixtures in the rooms but it has hard to tell how far to the couch, or a particular section of books. His options were to feel his way or know the number of steps, and he refused to make it obvious to others he had trouble seeing. So he counted steps and forced himself to take the same sized step so his counts wouldn't change. It was annoying, but he got used to it by the end of day one. It was second nature by the end of the fifth. 

He called Aziraphale twice that first week, first to beg him to come home and the second to just ask where he was. Aziraphale could leave Moscow faster than Crowley could get there via plane after all. He didn’t have the heart to tell the angel the true reason he wouldn’t leave the bookstore – he couldn’t navigate outside. 

Crowley tried once, leaving the bookshop at three am to minimize the people seeing him learning the sidewalks and curves. He didn’t go far, realizing he had no way to lock the shop. The key had been lost decades ago and he couldn't snap it secure. That ten-foot area had also been very stressful. He’d stepped off the curb three times, tripped on a crack, and realized how much he’d used to rely on his ability to divert cars and people. Soho never slept, and the woman he’d stumbled into had sneered at him. 

Anathema called every day. Not wanting to deal with the witch, he ignored each call. So of course, two weeks after he woke up, seven weeks after his last feather had bleached white and his magic disappeared, the witch burst into the bookshop.

* * *

Anathema wouldn’t call her relationship with Crowley and Aziraphale close. Even ten years after the events on the airfield they were no more than acquaintances, but she enjoyed the time she spent with the two ethereal beings. They got together once, maybe twice a year. 

Adam had force started the tradition – celebrating the world still being intact on the one-year anniversary of events – but this year the young man was busy with uni classes. Tracy and Shadwell made it out to Jasmine Cottage, but Crowley and Aziraphale hadn't shown up this year. 

Publicly, they all shrugged, said something must have come up, and forged ahead with lunch in a true English fashion. Newt nervously eating the cake they’d gotten confirmed she wasn’t the only one worrying. 

She called Crowley; Aziraphale had a phone but never answered. Crowley didn’t pick up. Every day she called and got directed to voice mail, the more her worry grew. 

Were the two of them busy dealing with an apocalyptic event? Or was there something more powerful out there than a demon who could stop time and an angel who had the gall to suggest, to their faces, that Heaven and Hell had been wrong? 

“Anathema, stop worrying.” 

“I can’t help it.” She paced around the kitchen table, ignoring the tea Newt had given her. Upstairs, tucked safely in bed, was their seven-year-old son, Erasmus. “If it’s kept them busy for two weeks, it’s got to be serious.” 

“Take the car to London tomorrow.” 

“You’d be okay with that? I know we had a day planned.” 

Newt stood up to wrap his arms around his wife’s waist. “I can handle a walk to a playground and ice cream by myself. And if you leave early enough, you can be back in town for the movie. Plus, if you don’t, you’ll just continue to worry. Put both our curiosity to bed. But take some supplies.” 

She turned, giving Newt’s cheek a kiss. “Okay. Thank you.” 

Newt shrugged. “We met trying to stop the end of the world. It’s not like I’m going to stop you from doing it again. If that _is_ what’s happening, let me know?” 

“Of course.”

* * *

One of the things that had worried Anathema, though she didn’t tell Newt, were the results of trying to scry for Aziraphale and Crowley. She didn’t have near the power they did, but she’d become accustomed to their auras and, helped by a pair of feathers, had a way to at least check to see if they were in London. Aziraphale was not, though her magic pointed her east. Crowley... well, she couldn’t pick up Crowley at all. 

She drove to Soho anyway. Maybe there were clues. A note. 

The front door was locked, no surprise there, so she went to the back and picked the lock. Softly, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The bookshop was _uncluttered._ Someone had gone through and put every stray book away. All the odds and ends had been regulated to small collections. The furniture had been moved too – no more askew angles, no more chairs between doorways. 

There’s no way Aziraphale would have done this, not that he could have, being out of town anyway. 

Had there been a struggle and someone tried to cover it up? 

She texted Newt. _Made it to the bookshop. Someone’s been here._ Then she tiptoed to the fireplace, grabbed an iron poker, and started snooping. 

Eventually, she became aware of sounds drifting from upstairs. Music, maybe. Clutching the poker tightly, she started climbing the metal steps. The higher she climbed, the more she could pick out the sounds. Music for sure. But also muttering. Fear started to coil in her chest and she took the stairs more slowly, peeking into the apartment as it came into view. 

She’d only been upstairs a handful of times. The stairs opened up to what Aziraphale and Crowley used as a dining room, at the back of was a U-shaped kitchen. Based on the increase in volume of music and mumbling, and the lack of feet she could see, the intruder was in the kitchen. Hopefully facing the other direction. 

Eager to catch them off guard, there was no other way she was winning a confrontation, Anathema charged up the last five steps, yelling at the top of her lungs with the iron poker in swing-ready position. 

The man at the sink in the kitchen swore loudly, snapped his fingers, turned around, yelled “get the fuck out!”, and tossed a wet shirt at her. 

Anathema had just enough to realize the shirt thrower was, in fact, _a naked Crowley,_ before it smacked her in the face. She dropped the poker, whipped the shirt off her face and back at Crowley, before turning around so her back was to him. Her face felt hot enough from embarrassment to dry her skin. 

There was a yelp from behind, her throw had hit him too. 

“Sorry, Crowley!” 

“Book Girl? Is that you?” 

“Yes!” 

“Why are you here?” 

She crossed her arms, still looking at the far wall. “You didn’t answer your phone. I got worried.” 

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. Like he never expected to ever have her worry for him. 

“Where’s Aziraphale?” she asked. 

“Russia.” 

“Why aren’t you with him?” 

“I... can’t.” 

“Can’t? Crowley are you-” she started turning around, only to get a face full of Crowley in all his naked glory. Her blushed intensified and she quickly turned her back on him. “ _Please,_ put some clothes on.” 

“Oh? Worried I’d tempt you?” 

“I’m happily married! Please, just, get decent.” 

He padded away. Once the sound of bare feet faded, she walked over to the kitchen sink to see what he’d been doing. Apparently, laundry. With dish soap. 

“Why are you washing your clothes?” Anathema shouted down the hallway. 

“Cuz they smell!” Crowley shouted back. 

“But can’t you, you know, magic them clean?” she responded. 

There was no response. 

She turned around just in time to see Crowley exit the bedroom, wearing what could only be Aziraphale’s clothes. The sweater sagged off one of his shoulders and gave him a square shape. The pants were fluted and short. Anathema stifled a giggle. 

Crowley frowned and crossed his arms. He looked at her, but it took Anathema half a second to realize that, despite not wearing his sunglasses, he hadn’t locked eyes with her. If she had to guess, he was staring at her nose. 

“Crowley, why are you washing your clothes?” The worry was creeping back, aided by how small and swamped he looked in Aziraphale’s clothes. 

“Look,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I only have the one set of clothes, so I’ve been wearing them two weeks straight. They needed a wash.” 

“And why couldn’t you just use magic?” 

She took a step closer, tried to read Crowley’s aura. She couldn't read it. Now, that wasn't true. Crowley simply wasn't giving off a demonic aura. He gave off a _human_ one.

“You don’t have any magic.” 

“No,” Crowley sighed. “I don’t.” 

“And Aziraphale left you?” 

“He’s why I don’t have it. He thinks if he’s gone, it’ll come back. But I’m not sure,” he looked down at his hands. “It’s been almost two months since it left,” he whispered. 

Well shit. 

“I’ll wash your clothes if you tell me what happened.” 

“Deal.”

* * *

“I don’t need to go to Tadfield.” 

“It’s that or my London flat. Pick one.” 

Huffing, Crowley crossed his arms and watched the locksmith install a new lock on the bookshop door. He hated the whirling sound of the drill biting into wood, that door had been untouched for centuries, but there was no other way to install a modern lock. And without a modern lock, he had no way to lock up their home. 

He touched the phone in his pocket, thinking about his next phone call with Aziraphale. The angel would be appalled to know someone had messed with his shop, but worse, telling him would mean admitting to just how overreaching the effects of having no magic were. Aziraphale already felt guilty, no need to give him a second helping. Best he could do was just ask the angel to come home. 

Plus, Crowley refused to let his new status slow him down. He’d tricked Heaven, he could figure out how to do all things Anathema talked about. Laundry, locking, cleaning, shopping. 

“The flat here, then.” 

“Fine. Newt and Erasmus can join us tomorrow.” 

“What? No! No need for your cursed husband and spawn to join us.” 

“You need help, and I’m suspecting it’ll be a lot. I’m not babysitting you _and_ not living with my family. The flat’s huge, no worries. Plus, Erasmus might enjoy London. He hasn’t spent much time in the city. Mmm, being based here will also allow me to teach you buses.” 

“I know how to ride a bus!” 

“Can you follow a human schedule and human routes? They won’t just go where you want them to go, anymore.” 

Crowley grumbled at the sidewalk. Another thing for the list. How did humans keep all of it in their heads? 

“Look,” Anathema gently placed her hand on Crowley’s forearm. “I get it. You miss your independence and your old life. But you _can’t_ live that way anymore Crowley. You just can’t.” 

He glared at her from behind his sunglasses, but he couldn’t tell if he was staring at her nose, cheekbone, or left eyebrow. With a groan, he ran a hand through his hair. He _knew_ he needed help. _Knew_ he couldn’t live how he had in the past. It’s why Anathema found him trying to do laundry in the sink. But there was a difference between admitting that to himself and learning in the privacy of his home and making a fool of himself to others.

“You need help _,_ Crowley. And since your bastard of a husband isn’t here, I’ll help you.” 

Crowley’s shoulders slumped. She was right. Aziraphale wouldn’t come to help him, not while he believed being away could bring back Crowley’s magic, not while the angel believed his love had poisoned Crowley. He wasn’t even sure Aziraphale knew how to do all the things Anathema needed to teach him. 

“Okay,” he said, and he hated how defeated he sounded. “As soon as this locksmith is done, I’ll pack and we’ll go to your flat.” 

Anathema gave him a one-armed hug. “We’ll have you independent in no time.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I have no idea where this story is going, but it's a bit of a lighter fare from my standard stuff. If you have something you want to see in this 'verse, just let me know! Otherwise it'll probably be sporative updates. Come say hi on [Tumblr](uniasus.tumblr.com).


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